


made from broken molds

by harsa (dearestwinter)



Series: Ragnarssons the Bikings [2]
Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Aslaug's A+ parenting, Astraphobia, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Brother/Brother Incest, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Manipulation, Family Dynamics, Hand Jobs, Introspection, Ivar (Vikings) is a Little Shit, M/M, Obsessive Behavior, Sibling Incest, Sibling Rivalry, beta read? she doesn't go here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-25
Updated: 2020-01-25
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22407871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearestwinter/pseuds/harsa
Summary: Ivar has been an observant boy his whole life.
Relationships: Ivar/Sigurd (Vikings), Sigurd (Vikings)/Original Male Character(s)
Series: Ragnarssons the Bikings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1615831
Comments: 8
Kudos: 63





	made from broken molds

**Author's Note:**

> So, I wrote a thing.
> 
> English is not my first language, so let me know if there are grammatical errors and I'll fix them. Comments are always much appreciated and help me write more!
> 
> TW: violence, blood, a bit of internalized homophobia, alcoholism and child neglect.
> 
> This is how I imagine these character's personalities and thoughts, so it can seem a bit ooc.
> 
> This fic now has a CONTINUATION! Read it [here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653324) 😊

Ivar has been an observant boy his whole life.

He can call it caution, he has to watch his back even more than anyone because he’s a cripple, and therefore people will always think of him as an easy target. Ivar has to be on the lookout, assessing his enemies and friends alike, so he can be a step ahead of them in case they try something. Ivar has to be an strategist, he needs a sharp mind to compensate for his useless legs.

But the truth is, Ivar enjoys being observant. It’s second nature to him now, as he’s been doing it for as long as he can remember. He comes, he watches, he draws his conclusions. And he plans. Oh, how he plans ways to go in case things go to shit, or if someone tries to hurt him. It’s all there, in his mind, stored until the need to use them arises. Ivar considers it a hobby to entertain himself at night in bed, on the quietness of his boat, or when he’s sharpening his axe with a whetstone.

Ivar thinks he has everyone figured out, more or less. He knows his mother too well, the overbearing, a lioness shielding her cub from the cruel world. Ivar knows she thinks she knows him, but he doesn’t allow her to. Aslaug, for all her protectiveness, can be manipulative to a fault. Ivar doesn’t hold it against her, mind you. He has grown to know it’s not something bad, manipulating people. He’s been honing the art since he was a child, after all. Ivar even thinks Aslaug might not be aware of it, and he wants to keep it that way. It could turn Aslaug against him, and he would have someone else to keep an eye on.

He has enough of that with his brothers.

Ubbe is the most malleable of them all. Ivar thinks it’s a shame, because Ubbe could be his favorite brother if it wasn’t for this big little flaw. A good fighter, smart, and with a soft heart. And Ivar knows the latter is not a flaw, even if he might publicly disagree; his is not a soft heart, but he can appreciate it in someone like Ubbe because it doesn’t stop him from being ruthless to his enemies. But compassion and pity, even for a crippled brother, can get you killed. This, Ubbe needs to keep working on. For now, Ivar will have to trust Ubbe’s determination in his actions to override them. 

Hvitserk, reckless and brave Hvitserk. Ivar hopes that the light he sees in his brother’s eyes when they train, when they hunt, when they kill, never fades. Still, he knows that the reckless always die first, and in the most stupid of ways. Ivar is not too worried about it though; Hvitserk has a lucky star in the form of Ubbe. They bring out the best in each other, and sometimes also the worst. Ubbe is the voice of reason, a true big brother, and Hvitserk is the push they both need to break out of their molds. They're a good team, so Ivar lets them do their thing.

Bjorn is an enigma in the way he’s one detached son of a bitch half of the time, when he’s not being completely absent the rest of it. Ivar could blame it on his duties as an eldest brother, as a father, on the age gap between him and the four of them. He could, but he doesn’t. Ivar hasn’t seen Father in many years, but by accounts of witnesses, although Ragnar had his heart in the right place, there isn’t much to be said for his presence where his sons are concerned. Else, he wouldn’t have abandoned them and their people. Ivar doesn’t want to think about Ragnar most of the time, about his choices in life that Ivar has come to accept but couldn’t begin to understand, or the way Aslaug talks about him, the thin-veiled bitterness in her tone even when she tells them what could otherwise be a happy anecdote. Bjorn, as the eldest son, knows Ragnar in a way Ivar and his brothers will never do. Perhaps that’s why he’s so much like their father, and not exactly in a good way. 

But if there’s one person who can take all of Ivar’s self-assuredness and throw it in the garbage, tear down his carefully built walls and spit on his confidence, is Sigurd. Ivar tries, Odin knows he tries to figure Sigurd out, but it’s useless. Sigurd Snake-in-the-Eye, slithering out of his hands. Ever since they were children, they have been as different as night and day, as the sun and the moon. Together but never close, next to each other but as far apart as they could be. Their birth orders had the opposite effect as with Ubbe and Hvitserk; hate, resentment, apathy. Nothing anyone ever did has drawn them close, and Ivar is observant enough to know Aslaug is mostly to blame for that.

Many a night sleep has eluded Ivar, thinking of his older brother. Many a night he has crawled out of his furs to stop right beside Sigurd’s, just watching him sleep. Wishing that he could somehow get into his mind and know what he thinks about, his dreams, his fears. It's frustrating for Ivar, who prides himself on being able to read people so well, that the only one of his brothers who he can't get the upper hand on, is the one he dislikes the most.

It's not that Sigurd makes it any easier for him either. He's one annoying asshole; when he's not making a racket with that stupid oud of his, Sigurd talks too much. About anything and anyone. Once again, the opposite of Ivar, who prefers to open his mouth when he's sure he has the chance to win an argument, or when he has found something to threaten another person with effectively.

Not Sigurd, who has a way to rile Ivar up with only a few careless words. Usually Ivar is above the fights his brothers try to pick up with each other, but Sigurd makes it his purpose in life to turn whatever topic they're arguing about, about Ivar. Calling him names, taunting him about his legs, about their mother's babying of himself. And Ivar, fool that he is, indulges him and they end up coming to blows more often than not, until Ubbe steps up.

Sigurd talks too much, yes, but it strikes Ivar as odd that he doesn't _say_ much. He knows that Sigurd likes music and poetry, and all that useless shit that no self-respecting viking should ever consider as hobbies. Music is noise, words are noise, but Sigurd has always been a quiet boy. One that can easily blend in a crowd, or stay hidden in the shadows if he needs to. Ivar watches him train with their brothers, and admits that Sigurd is a capable fighter and has a good aim with axe and bow, but he doesn't _see_ the thirst for blood and power that Hvitserk has, or the strength and confidence that Ubbe exudes. Ivar has seen Sigurd in battle, his eyes bright with excitement, he has heard his brother's battle cries loud as everyone else's. But when it's over, it's like he puts on an expressionless mask that he carries around all the time like it is his real face. And it leaves Ivar with an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

Ivar blames Aslaug for that. It had felt nice when he was a child, to be so loved and cared for. But it had also isolated him from his brothers, made him too dependent on his mother. He thinks that if Aslaug had paid attention to Sigurd a bit more instead of letting him wander around on his own, they would've been more in contact with each other, and therefore Ivar could know him better now.

Ivar, contrary to popular belief, is not heartless. He can put himself on someone else's shoes if he wants. Whenever he thinks about Sigurd, he can't help but wonder what he must have felt as a child and what he thinks about Aslaug now. Ubbe and Hvitserk were older than them, so they didn't mind much about Aslaug being so overprotective of Ivar, but Sigurd is only two years older than him. He must have needed his mother too, as any child does. And although Sigurd sometimes makes scathing comments about their mother's supposed affair with another man, or Ivar being her favorite, he says nothing about her parenting towards himself. And Ivar cannot for the life of him understand how Sigurd can say such things to him and Aslaug, and keep his face a stone mask. 

One stormy night that keeps Ivar awake with his heart pounding inside his chest and staring at the ceiling in the dark, his mind digs up a long-buried memory. It was a night just like this one, but Ivar was perhaps five years old and he was scared of lightning. He had seen what Thor had done to several of their ships anchored at the docks a few days ago, the way he had beat his hammer so hard that the lightning had smashed them to pieces and blackened the wood. Ivar had dreamed that something like that would happen to their hut, so he had woken up drenched in sweat and with tears in his eyes. He had crawled to his mother's bed, but she was nowhere to be seen. Ivar was wailing by the time he reached his brothers' room, intending to wake Ubbe and ask him for cuddles, but Ivar soon found out only Sigurd was there, sleeping like the dead. Ivar remembers thinking that Sigurd was very brave, if he could sleep through a storm like that one with such a peaceful look on his face. 

Sigurd had taken one annoyed look at him when Ivar all but screamed in his face as he shook him awake, and told him to get lost. Ivar couldn't, so he had stayed there, bawling his eyes out until Sigurd took pity on him and raised his furs in a reluctant invitation. Sigurd hadn't comforted him, only waited until Ivar had calmed down and his breathing seemed like that of a sleeping little boy. Then Ivar felt a hand patting his head awkwardly, and a quiet, _"It's alright, Boneless"._

Nothing of that sort had happened again, but what nobody knows is that Ivar hasn't left his fear of lightning behind. Not that he would ever admit it, even under threat of death. Still, the memory must have shaken something deep inside him because the next bolt of lightning has him out of his bed in a second and scrambling through the floor that separates him from… 

He sees Ubbe and Hvitserk asleep in their beds, but somehow he passes by them. The memory and Sigurd's words are too fresh in his mind for him to realize what he's doing, so he lets his hands take him to his brother. Blond curls and a peaceful face is all he sees as he does the same thing he'd done years ago: shake Sigurd awake.

His blue-green eyes are glazed with sleep, and a frown appears on his forehead as he watches Ivar looming over him. The latter has half a mind to crawl back the way he came, thinking this is the stupidest idea he's ever had. But he doesn't, and instead he lifts the furs on Sigurd's bed high enough to get under. 

"Move", he says. 

Sigurd must still be confused from this rough awakening because he obeys without a word of complaint. Ivar crawls in, and immediately turns on his side, his back to Sigurd. He can feel his brother's eyes on him, but only when lightning strikes again and Ivar shivers involuntarily is when Sigurd speaks. 

"If you hit me in your sleep, I'm kicking you out." 

Ivar hums, but soon enough the pull of sleep is stronger than whatever rational thought there is left in his head. When he wakes a little bit before dawn, he's in the same position as the night before, but this time there's warmth radiating from a body behind him, and Sigurd's arm is thrown carelessly over his waist. Ivar won't be caught dead sleeping with his hated older brother, so he slips out of Sigurd's bed as quietly as possible for a cripple.

None of them say a word during breakfast, but they make a point of avoiding each other's eyes. Sigurd, the little bastard, seems unfazed by last night's events. Ivar, for his part, is almost bursting out of his own skin. He wants to beat the shit out of himself for being so weak, for allowing himself that moment of weakness. For allowing Sigurd to see him as he truly is and not as Ivar wants him to. It's going to take a while to fix this mess, so he needs to tread lightly from now on. 

Next time there's a storm, Ivar sucks it up and waits for it to pass. He pointedly refuses to crane his head to the side, to where the blond figure sleeps soundly across the room from him. 

Months pass before something happens again. Ivar has taken to keep a close eye on Sigurd, almost to the point of obsession. He wouldn't say he follows Sigurd around, because that would mean he's able to catch up with his brother's long strides, and he isn't. But that doesn't mean Ivar can't figure out what he's up to. There's a ten year old boy whose father had been a raider, one of the few men who had accompanied Ragnar to England on his first raid, and who still holds his king in high regard. Ivar uses the boy's idealized figure of Ragnar to his own advantage, and promises him that any son of Ragnar of his choosing will teach him how to fight properly with an axe, if he follows Sigurd about the streets of Kattegat and reports back to Ivar.

The boy does a good job, and Ivar is a man of his word so he convinces Ubbe to teach the boy some moves with the axe. The reports tell of Sigurd doing normal shit during the day: a visit to the docks, to the blacksmith's shop, to the market. It varies depending the day. But it's at night where Ivar finds a pattern. (It had been trickier to convince Hvitserk to teach the boy how to shoot with bow and arrow in exchange for this information, since his brother cannot take anything seriously to save his life).

Some nights a week, Sigurd sneaks out after everyone goes to sleep. Ivar raises an eyebrow as the boy tells him how he follows Sigurd to the woods, where a little hut and a man's arms are waiting for him. Ivar cannot say he's too surprised about it; Sigurd has always been the softest out of all of them. But he had thought that Sigurd liked girls, if that Margrethe slave that his brothers are obsessed with is any indication. 

Ivar instructs the boy to keep a watchful eye on the streets and see if he can find the man that Sigurd spends his nights with, so Ivar can put a name to the mane of dark curls and green eyes that the boy saw. 

A week later, and he has a name. _Gils._ A couple of days after, and he finds out that the man is some kind of whore for deviant men. It's not that Ivar will actually do anything to him, to each his own he guesses. But still, he cannot help the sudden flare of… anger? He doesn't know, but it's a feeling that leaves him queasy to the stomach and with a sour taste in his mouth. 

Ivar is ruled by his impulses where Sigurd is concerned. He has come to terms about this, but one night he decides enough is enough.

This time, Ivar knows what to expect. He hears Sigurd put on his boots quiet as a mouse, and then he's out of the door. Ivar lets him, busying himself until a couple of hours later when he hears the door squeaking open again. Ivar had made himself comfortable in a chair next to the fire, almost savoring the thought of catching Sigurd red-handed, knowing what he knows, and seeing the humiliation and embarrassment in his brother's eyes, the snake forced to eat its own tail.

Ivar does catch his brother coming through the door, but he's severely disappointed when Sigurd does not show anything that Ivar had expected him to. Only anger. 

"What are _you_ doing here?" he asks, squinting his eyes warily. 

"I could ask the same of you, _brother._ It's a bit late in the night to be out. Pray tell, where were you?" 

Sigurd takes off his snow-covered fur coat. "Don't play at being Mother, Ivar. It doesn't suit you. And besides, it's none of your business where I've been." 

"Oh, shall I wake her up, then? So you can explain yourself to her, if you won't explain yourself to me."

"Do it", Sigurd replies. "Let's see if she gives a damn. I doubt it, as I doubt that you would be able to wake her. She has drunk herself stupid again tonight." 

Ivar sets his horn of ale hard on the table, spilling its contents. "SHUT YOUR MOUTH!" 

"Or what? It's not like I'm lying, am I?" 

Ivar has come prepared for the occasion. He grabs his clutches and makes the slow walk to where Sigurd is leaning by the closed door. Under other circumstances, his brother would be mocking him for that, but Sigurd only watches him until Ivar stops a couple of feet away from him. If Sigurd's cheeks are red from the cold or because of their argument, Ivar doesn't know. They just stare at each other, measuring the other up, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Ivar can see the moment Sigurd realizes he knows. When he looks into his brother's eyes, it's like watching a storm at sea. Dark and tempestuous. The pupils dilated, eclipsing the blue-green. The snake is a sight to behold, its body twisted in fury. 

Ivar is on the ground in a second, and he barely has time to register the pain in the back of his head before a fist collides with his cheekbone. Sigurd's contorted face above him is obscured by the stars dancing before Ivar's eyes until he regains command of his arms, and he strikes back. Sigurd falls to his side with the force of the blow, from where he had been pining Ivar to the floor with his body. And then everything is a blur of kicks and punches and heavy grunting, until Ivar gets the upper hand and he straddles Sigurd's hips, closes both hands around his throat and _squeezes._

Sigurd thrashes under him, trying to get him off, but he has barely recovered his breath from the previous fight and Ivar's grip is tight. He makes a choked sound as his lungs stop receiving blessed air, and his hands grasp weakly at Ivar's wrists. The fury is gone from Sigurd's pretty eyes, leaving them bright with panic. The snake curling in on itself, trying to get away from a bigger predator. 

Ivar releases him.

Sigurd gulps in air so fast that he starts coughing. It doesn't stop for a few seconds, and Ivar is left staring at him, staring at his own hands that could very well have choked the life out of his brother only seconds ago. He hadn't meant for it to go so far. Ivar crawls to where Sigurd is still trying to control his breathing, and without thinking, he puts a hand on his back. 

Sigurd turns around, but there's no fight left in him. His eyes are wet with unshed tears from coughing so much, and there's a tickle of blood running down a shallow cut on his forehead. His lip is split, but nothing seems to be actually broken. 

Ivar knows he's in no better shape himself, his nose bleeding steadily and his swollen left eye already half shut. There's a mean ache in his ribs too, where a colorful bruise is going to grace his eyes in the mirror tomorrow. 

They stay sitting on the ground until their breathing goes back to normal.

"You shouldn't anger me so much, Boneless," says Sigurd after a long while, his voice almost a whisper. 

"Right back at you."

They're close enough to touch, to make out details on each other's faces and eyes. Ivar's eyes travel from Sigurd's tousled blond hair, to his neck, where the blue and purple bruises are starting to show. Ivar raises his hand in a silent question, watching closely for Sigurd's reaction as Ivar places it on his neck. His thumb traces the little ball in there, and Sigurd whimpers in pain. Ivar would laugh if he didn't feel so guilty.

But he doesn't remove his hand, instead he shuffles even _closer_ until they're pressed side by side. Ivar's hand moves up to cup Sigurd's cheek, tracing his jaw. And then all rational thought flees his mind as he closes the distance between them.

If he had expected the kiss to be rough right away, Ivar is sorely mistaken. It's just a peck at first, only feeling Sigurd's warm lips against his, but then Ivar lets his tongue trace his brother's bottom lip, tasting the coppery saltiness from the cut there. He pulls away just to take a look; Sigurd's eyes remain closed, his breath hot against Ivar's face, and there's a smear of shiny scarlet blood on his cheek from where Ivar pressed his bloody nose against it. 

His brother isn't shoving him away, or cursing him, so Ivar leans in for a second kiss. This time Sigurd is more of a participant, his tongue meeting Ivar's in a battle for dominance that leaves them both breathless again. Their bodies mold well to the other's as they kiss and explore, tasting their combined blood, and it's filthy and so, so hot. Ivar fists a hand on Sigurd's hair, surprisingly soft, and yanks down to expose his brother's neck. Sigurd smells of outdoors, the woods, and candlewax. But there's also a scent of honey and flowery oil that Ivar is all too familiar with, as he licks and scrapes his teeth over the bruises. 

Sigurd half-groans, half-whimpers at this action. He must feel so sore, Ivar is sure he won't be able to speak tomorrow. _Good._

Sigurd finds Ivar's arm and grips it tight. It scares Ivar a bit knowing that he _understands_ what his brother is trying to ask of him. Ivar puts a hand on his shoulder and guides him down to lie on the ground, his blond curls sprawled on the hard-packed dirt. 

"Come on, Boneless. I don't have all night." 

Ivar snorts, his fingers doing a quick work of Sigurd's breeches. 

"And what is more important than this, I wonder?" 

"Getting some sleep," is Sigurd's reply, tiredness evident in his raspy voice. 

"Yeah, right." 

In fact, Ivar would have answered the same thing in Sigurd's place. For now, he just spits in his hand and closes a fist on his brother's erection. Sigurd breathes in deep, his teeth dragging over the not-healed cut on his bottom lip, and Ivar watches as a drop of blood rolls sideways down his cheek and onto the floor. 

Ivar makes no move to unlace his own breeches, as it's evident for himself that it would be pointless, and he doesn't care for Sigurd to know about his problem. He looks down at his brother as his hand strokes his long cock up and down, his eyes squeezed shut in pleasure this time, so far gone. Ivar commits everything to memory, because he knows this isn't going to happen again. And he's fine with that.

He finally has Sigurd where he wants him. Vulnerable, squirming under him. The mask is gone, every emotion Sigurd feels laid bare for Ivar to see, and it's enough for him to know he can bring Sigurd down like this. This is his revenge, and at the same time, his reward. 

Ivar tightens his grip on his brother's cock, out of curiosity, and Sigurd groans, bucking his hips up to get more friction. Ivar giggles, and gets a kick to his shin for it, but for once he lets it slide. He does speed up the pace, and watches as Sigurd's legs tremble, and he grips Ivar's unoccupied hand, tugging and dragging him down. He comes in Ivar's hand as he bites on Ivar's bottom lip, leaving a twin cut to match the one Ivar gave him. 

"I hate you so much," he sighs. 

Ivar wipes his hand clean on Sigurd's clothed thigh. "Huh, I don't think you do." 

"You know nothing, Boneless."

Sigurd retreats to their room to get his so desired sleep, but Ivar doesn't join him. He pours himself a horn of ale, and smiles around the rim as he takes a sip. Sigurd is mistaken, he does know a few things now. What he will do with this new information, well, that's only for Ivar to decide. 

**Author's Note:**

> You can read the continuation of this fic [here!](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27653324) 💖 
> 
> Follow me on [tumblr](http://maegelletargaryen.tumblr.com) 💖


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